


Draco Malfoy and the Case of the Smuggled Gossip

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Body Shaming, Drinking, Gossip, H/D Cluefest 2021, Kissing, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Neville Longbottom/Ginny Weasley, Public Humiliation, mentions of handjobs, smoking weed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29110476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It's eighth year and someone is selling gossip about Harry Potter and his friends to the new trashy wizarding tabloid. Can Draco discover how the gossip is getting smuggled out of the castle? Will he and Harry grow closer in the process? Will there be kissing? (Spoilers: yes)
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 35
Collections: H/D Cluefest 2021





	Draco Malfoy and the Case of the Smuggled Gossip

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meandminniemcg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meandminniemcg/gifts).



> In this story, multiple characters are publicly humiliated by a gossip magazine in a way consistent with real world tabloids. Harry and Draco are not the ones responsible.
> 
> Thanks to meandminniemcg for the great prompt and to the mods for all their hard work!

Draco woke with his cheek plastered to his open Arithmancy text by a small puddle of drool. He shivered as he took in the honeysuckle and creeping thistle surrounding him. What had been a pleasantly warm late September afternoon in the Hogwarts wildflower gardens had turned into a chilly evening. 

He’d taken to studying in the gardens to avoid other people as he wasn’t exactly feeling welcome this year. Pansy was living with cousins in Japan while Greg and his mother had gone to America of all places. And Vince, well, Draco didn't want to think about him. The only other Slytherins to return for eighth year were Zabini and Greengrass, but as their families had had the good sense to avoid entanglements in the war, they were being treated with only slight caution. Draco seemed to be absorbing all the animosity. He was well aware he deserved it, but it’d be nice if people remembered who was really to blame once in a while. And so, he had developed a careful strategy of being seen just enough to create the image that he didn’t care what people thought of him and flat out hiding the rest of the time. He was having a shite year, but it was a decided improvement on constant fear of torture and death, so hooray for that.

A quick _Tempus_ told him it was half six. “Bollocks.” Draco stood, shaking the pins and needles out of his left foot. Brushing off his trousers didn’t help the wrinkles, and a crinkling sound told him he had leaves in his hair. He’d missed dinner, but if he hurried, he could still make it back to the eighth year dormitory and get cleaned up before the others returned. He was going to let anyone see him disheveled; he still had his pride.

He hurried past gardens and greenhouses, but came to an abrupt halt when he heard amorous giggling. He peered around a large shrub to see Ginevra Weasley pressing Neville Longbottom up against a wall. Draco had fallen into a tenuous truce with them last year when he had declined to report on their resistance activities. He’d been too scared to do anything overt, even though by seventh year he had wholeheartedly wished for the demise of the Dark Lord. Draco had no desire to raise Ginevra’s legendary ire by interrupting their snogging and took the long way round the greenhouse.

Draco entered the castle through the herbology classrooms and walked along seldom used halls. The eighth year common room was thankfully empty when he arrived, the tables and couches strewn with various study materials abandoned as everyone went to dinner. 

The Hogwarts governors had thought it prudent to house the returning eighth years away from the rest of the students, reopening a section of the castle previously used for graduate students. Most of the eighth years had been quite surprised to learn of this when led on a tour of their new dorm. Granger had exclaimed, “Have none of you read _Hogwarts, A History_?” Draco had barely contained his laugh at the look on her face when her historical rant had been interrupted by their new head of house and Transfiguration professor. Cerys Powell had introduced herself before launching into a lengthy explanation of when and why mastery programs had moved to Cambridge and Oxford and the like. She'd also apparently been heavily involved in the renovations of their new dorms and went on about that ad nauseum as well.

Draco hurried past the ‘House Unity Board’ with Powell’s photos of students ‘caught being united’ and down the long corridor of tiny bedrooms to the communal lavatory. For the most part, Draco was quite pleased with the eighth year dorms. He was thrilled to have his own bedroom, but the shared lavatory had taken some getting used to. When these dorms had been in use, witches were not allowed in mastery programs, hence only one loo. The Roman style communal bath had been converted into private shower cubicles to accommodate modern views on group nudity, but it was still very odd to see a woman brushing her teeth next to him while he used a depilatory charm. 

And it led to there being entirely too many toiletry bags stacked on the shelves next to the sinks. He searched around, eventually finding his, only to discover his comb was missing. “Bollocks,” he muttered again as he plucked leaves out of his hair by hand. He may have cut his hair in a taper style as a way to further distance himself from his father (fuck the manipulative arsehole) but it was also pleasantly easy to care for. He used a bit of potion to artfully spike the longer hair on top and spelled his clothes neat.

Declaring himself once again suitable for public appearance, he walked back to the common room to find Potter looking around a table anxiously.

“Has anybody seen my backpack?”

The assorted eighth years only looked back at him in confusion. Granger and Weasley joined him at the table, picking up their things and looking around as if said backpack might suddenly appear. Draco sat down by a window and opened his Arithmancy text again.

After a time, Potter’s strained voice broke out again. “Look, I’m not mad if someone moved my bag, but I really need it back. It had important things in it that I really need back.”

Again, the room looked at him blankly.

“Are you sure you left it here?” Hannah Abbott asked.

“Positive,” Potter answered. “It was right here by Ron and Hermione’s stuff when we all went down to dinner.”

“And we all went to dinner at the same time…” Granger frowned, looking again under the table.

“Almost all of us,” Zacharias Smith said with a sneer. “Malfoy wasn’t at dinner.”

Draco, who had been carefully avoiding the conversation, finally looked up to find the whole room staring at him. “I didn’t steal your backpack, Potter,” he said with careful nonchalance before looking back to his book.

Smith scoffed, and Potter looked deeply worried. Granger organized an all out search of the common room. Weasley threw his arm around Potter. “Don’t worry, mate. ‘Mione’s charm on your journal will hold. No one will be able to open it.” 

Draco tried to study, but his foot tapped restlessly. He hated that people assumed the worst of him. He was fully aware that he had done terrible things during the war. (Not like he’d had much of a choice when his other option had been death.) He’d written letters of apology to those he’d hurt the most and made quiet reparations where he could. McGonagall, of all people, had told him over tea and biscuits that she felt as if she’d failed him for not helping him get out of his father’s control. He’d even had some tense, awkward apology trading with Potter after Draco’s trial. 

So, yes, he might have been forced into working for the Dark Lord, but he was not a petty criminal. And sure, there was a day when he might have stolen Potter’s bag to mess with him, but Draco was beyond bullying Potter to get his attention. 

Draco’s gut twisted as the search died down, but the suspicious glares continued. Even Powell gave him dirty looks as she set up her ‘house bonding’ game night. Draco stood and walked towards the bedrooms so he wouldn't have to endure being pointedly left out of that nonsense. 

“Malfoy.” Potter’s voice came quiet and tentative as Draco approached his door. Draco took a deep breath and turned.

“Look, I promise I won’t say it was you. I’ll just say I found it in my room. But I really need my journal. There’s stuff in there that’s…” Potter looked at the ground and mumbled, “private.”

“I said I didn’t take it, Potter. I have no desire to read your homoerotic fantasies.” Draco had meant it as a joke, something to lighten the seriousness of the accusation. But Potter’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and brown cheeks darkened.

Draco felt heat rush over him, eyes locked with Potter’s. Never, in a million years, had he thought that Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, could be queer. That they could have this in common. It had taken years for Draco to figure out why he was fascinated by Potter, to realize that his desire to torment him was born from not knowing how to handle his attraction. But by that time it was too late for him to do anything about it. They were on opposite sides of a war, and there had been so much violence between them, and Potter was, by all accounts, straight. And now, to realize that Potter also might fancy men. The implications made Draco’s head spin.

Draco coughed lightly. “I didn’t take your backpack, Potter.” He walked into his room and shut the door before collapsing on his bed.

*****

A few days later, Draco arrived at breakfast to find the eighth year table taking the mickey out of Potter. While Potter appeared to be taking the mockery lightheartedly, Draco could see a subtle tightness in Potter’s expression. No one else seemed to notice, but then Draco had spent a great deal of time staring at Potter.

“Now Harry, you could improve this one with some chiaroscuro shading,” Dean Thomas said pointing to something in a magazine and failing miserably at maintaining a straight face.

Draco sat at the end of the table and tried to be unobtrusive. Lovegood slid down next to him. Out of everyone at Hogwarts, she was the only person who tried to be friendly with him. She said she’d seen his true heart while imprisoned at the Manor. While it was true that he’d done what he could to sneak extra food and supplies to the prisoners, Draco still felt guilty that he’d been too terrified to do more.

“I don’t know why everyone thinks they’re funny. I think they exude childlike joy,” Lovegood commented as she pushed a magazine in front of Draco.

It was the new edition of _W!_ magazine. In the wake of the war, the _Daily Prophet_ had cleaned up its reporting and now focused on ‘factual journalism,’ meaning no more celebrity gossip. _W!_ had cropped up to fill the void for salacious and unsubstantiated drivel. This week’s cover article seemed to be about Potter:

_**Harry Has Artistic Ambition, Sadly No Skill**_

The article analyzed a series of dragon drawings that might have been done by a seven-year-old, except for the hints of high level magical coursework at the edges. These were obviously doodles Potter had done on his class notes. It didn’t take Slytherin cunning to put it together: whoever had stolen Potter’s backpack had passed the doodles on to _W!_ for a profit.

While the rest of the table, even Weasley, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying laughing at Potter’s expense, Granger was staring off into space and twirling a pencil through a lock of her hair. 

Draco had initially despised her for being muggleborn, just as his father had taught him. But her skill and quick mind had been one of many things that had made him begin to question his father’s beliefs. If mudbloods were so stupid and inferior, why couldn’t Draco get better marks than her? Of course, he’d covered up this disruption of his worldview by being even more cruel to her. He’d apologized for this, as well as for the events of April, in a letter he’d sent her over the summer. She’d replied to say that Draco was a bigot, a bully, a prat, and several other invectives, but that she didn’t blame him for what Bellatrix had done.

Now, he could guess what she was contemplating: how had _W!_ gotten ahold of these pictures? Students were restricted to the grounds with so many Death Eaters still at large, meaning no Hogsmeade trips. Mail was being screened to watch for threats from increasingly desperate Death Eaters as well as to protect the privacy of celebrity students. 

This had become an issue over the summer when Longbottom and Ginevra’s relationship had become public knowledge. They’d received a number of threats to their lives and property. Potter’s ‘fans’ accused Ginevra of breaking his heart, with rather unsavory commentary concerning the number of boys she had dated. Longbottom was merely accused of being a shite friend. Potter had been forced to make a statement explaining that he’d only dated Ginevra three weeks, and he was thrilled his friends had found something together. The threats had ceased, but the desire to pry into the private lives of Potter and his friends continued.

The mystery of the smuggled documents occupied Draco’s thoughts during Potions as Slughorn reviewed material Draco had learned on his own years ago. But as he had no amazing revelations, he’d mostly forgotten about it by the end of the day.

*****

The mystery caused a scene the next Friday, as Draco arrived at breakfast only to be nearly trampled as Weasley and Granger stormed out of the Great Hall with all eyes following them.

Draco found a _W!_ magazine abandoned on the table. 

_**A Peek At Romione’s Pants!**_

The cutesy couple name was nauseating enough, but then the article analyzed Granger’s and Weasley’s underthings. It speculated as to the details of their physical relationship based on the more alluring items: red, lacy pants and tight, black trunks respectively. There were accompanying photographs of said underthings. Frankly, it was a mental image that Draco would have happily lived without. 

Zacharias Smith, notorious coward and trampler of first years, spent the day telling everyone that Draco was the only one who could be selling information to _W!_. Only eighth years and professors could have gotten in their dorms to steal the backpack and photograph the pants. Draco was the only one nefarious enough to do it. He was frequently seen walking around the dorms suspiciously. And he clearly needed the money after the reparations his family had been forced to pay. (Draco declined to counter that money was never going to be an issue with all the creative ways his father had hid funds over the years.) 

Powell held a house meeting that evening to discuss the issue. Granger, looking completely mortified, sat with a scowling Weasley and an unusually quiet Potter in the back while the other eighth years not so subtly voiced their agreement with Smith. Powell didn’t even bother trying to hide her animosity, pointedly looking at Draco when she stressed the importance of respecting the privacy of others.

After the show trial, Draco tried to escape the common room without notice. He failed as Weasley walked into his path to call him a “fucking arsehole.” Very careful not to show a reaction, Draco deftly stepped around the ginger, noticing Potter’s keen observation from across the room.

Entering the lavatory, he found Lavender Brown meticulously putting her hair in curlers. Draco restrained himself from commenting that she spent entirely too much time fussing with her hair for a girl with extensive facial scars. He was trying to be a better person after all.

Potter entered the loo. “Lavender, could you give us a mo’?”

She looked nervously from Potter to Draco before nodding and heading out.

“We need to stop meeting like this.” Draco said facing the mirror and fixing his hair to hide the way his hands had started to tremble.

Potter had the good grace to look horrified. “I really am sorry for that.”

Draco waved a dismissive hand with aristocratic grace. “So you’ve said.” 

Potter awkwardly shuffled for a moment. “Look, I need to ask if it was you.”

Draco turned to face Potter, standing tall with all the superiority he could muster. “I would not touch Granger’s underthings for all the gold in Gringott’s.”

Strangely, Potter looked offended. “What? Because she’s muggleborn?”

“No, Merlin, Potter! Because I have no interest in the sexual antics of your friends. And I certainly wouldn’t sell the details to a trashy tabloid. I may have been on the wrong side of the war, but I still have class.”

Potter stared at him intently. Draco didn’t feel the telltale buzzing of Legilimancy, but it nonetheless felt like Potter was trying to read his thoughts. Draco sternly held Potter’s gaze, noticing the way green eyes stood out against bronzed skin. It was an upsettingly attractive contrast.

“I believe you,” Potter finally said.

Draco felt his cheeks heat up, embarrassingly pleased to have Potter’s...trust?

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Potter nodded slightly and turned to leave.

On some fool impulse, Draco called out, “And for the record, I wouldn’t touch any woman’s knickers.” 

The way Potter stumbled into the door frame sent a shiver up Draco’s spine.

*****

The articles continued. A photo of Potter smoking cannabis like a muggle. (Cannabis was a common enough ingredient in potions for anxiety and chronic pain, but Draco had never heard of anyone smoking it before.) Speculation as to what Weasley would buy Granger for her birthday. (Weasley had questioned nearly every female in the castle for advice.) A topless photo of Longbottom working in the garden. (Draco had to begrudgingly admit that Longbottom had gotten quite fit in recent years, so fit that Draco idly thought someone should name stunning puberty transformations after the bloke.) It was all silly gossip, but Potter was still clearly worried about the missing journal, searching for it daily.

Zacharias Smith continued to accuse Draco, and, from the increase in dirty glares, it seemed most of the castle believed him. Except Potter. He never spoke up to defend Draco in public, but Draco noticed that Granger and Weasley weren’t glaring at him anymore either. 

Draco stubbornly maintained his schedule of common room appearances, refusing to let it appear that Smith’s accusations even registered with him. But one clear night, he just couldn’t take the whispers anymore and went for a walk. He wandered deep into the gardens, where tall grasses had gone to seed, boasting multi-colored tufts. Following a strange odor, he came across a figure perched on a bench. As Draco approached, the figure looked up, moonlight reflecting off his glasses. Of course it was Potter, looking absurdly handsome despite, or maybe because, of his messy hair and shabby jumper.

“Hello,” Potter shrugged, “here to mock me for my dirty muggle habit?”

Draco realized the odor came from the small burning stick in Potter’s hand. 

“Well, I do think it’s strange,” Draco looked down his nose at Potter, “but I wasn’t planning on mocking you, no.” 

Potter looked at his burning stick. “Justin showed me how to do this. Something about the action of it is soothing. And I like sitting out here.” (Of course Potter was going to steal Draco’s hiding spot.) He held it out to Draco. “Want some?”

Not to be outdone by Potter on anything, Draco sat beside him on the bench, and took the stick gingerly between his fingers. Bringing it to his lips, he took a long inhale. And promptly hacked up most of his lungs.

“Merlin, Potter, that is thoroughly barbaric!” Draco managed to cough out.

Potter took his disgusting thing back, taking a long inhale with ease. “To each his own.” Potter leaned his head back on the bench and looked up at the stars. 

Draco followed suit. The small bench meant his arm pressed into Potter’s, shoulder to elbow. It felt terribly nice, sending little shivers through Draco with every slight shift. The stars shined brightly over Hogwarts, and they stared up at them in silence for quite some time.

“Were you serious the other day?” Potter whispered, eyes on the stars.

“About what?”

“About not touching any woman’s knickers.”

“Yes.” Draco thought he should be nervous, admitting this to his supposed enemy of seven years, but he wasn’t. It was liberating actually.

“When did you know?”

“I think I’ve always known.” Draco paused, calculating how much to share. “But I was sure in fifth year when I found putting my hand in Pansy's pants thoroughly distasteful."

Potter snorted, then, turning to look at Draco's expression, broke out in a genuine belly-laugh. “Fuck, Malfoy,” he breathed, pressing his arm once more against Draco’s. 

The sensation of Potter’s arm against his made Draco feel like he could do anything. “What about you?”

“Well, I didn’t find my hand in a girl's pants distasteful.” Potter swallowed audibly before speaking again. “But I think I might like to do it with a bloke too. So I guess I’m not sure I know yet.” He sounded afraid in a way Draco didn’t think he’d ever heard from Potter.

“There aren’t any rules for this,” Draco said quietly. "Is that why you are so worried about your journal?"

"It's something my therapist, uh, mind healer, recommended. So I could work things out when I can't see her." Potter turned to Draco. "Are you going to mock me for needing a mind healer?"

Draco thought about his long sessions with the Swiss mind healer his mother had employed for them over the summer and met Potter's gaze. "No, I imagine we all need some mind healing after what we've been through."

Potter nodded. He took a last inhale before carefully dropping the abominable thing in the dirt and putting it out with his trainer.

“Thanks for the talk, Draco,” Potter said, placing his hand on Draco’s knee with a slight squeeze. He stood and walked off into the night.

Draco sat on that bench for quite a bit longer, looking up at the stars.

*****

After his encounter with Potter, Draco began properly investigating how information was being smuggled to the magazine. He read books on Hogwarts’ security and surreptitiously questioned Flitwick about charms to disguise text. Draco told himself he was doing it to clear his name and beat Granger, but really he had this intense, protective need to help Potter. 

He didn’t get much of anywhere until one day in late October, when _W!_ published an especially cruel article:

**_Hermione’s Baby Bump!?_**

The article featured a photo of Granger reaching for a book on a high shelf in the library. Her jumper rode up to expose a bit of softness spilling over the waist of her skirt.

Granger left breakfast abruptly that morning, Weasley followed after her, unwisely insisting that she’d just gained back weight lost in the last year. Ginevra had been quite upset that the article had discussed a Weasley propensity for accidental pregnancy. “Mum is going to lose it when she sees they brought up Bill’s birthdate,” she’d lamented. Lovegood gave a surprisingly medically accurate lecture about early pregnancy symptoms, at least until the part about nargles.

Later that day, Draco had the misfortune of entering the accursed communal loo to find Granger tearfully examining her profile in the mirror. So Draco did the most cunning and calculated thing he could. With a practiced nonchalance, he fixed his hair in the mirror, not making eye contact with Granger.

“It’s all terribly sexist,” he drawled casually. “Unrealistic expectations for the female form, double standards, and all that. Utter rubbish.” Draco turned with a flourish worthy of Snape and left before Granger could respond.

Later, Draco was on his bed, reading yet another volume on security charms, notes spread around him, when he heard a gentle rapping on his door. No one knocked on Draco’s door. No one talked to Draco.

“Enter,” he called with characteristic haughtiness.

Granger opened the door. “I just wanted to say thank you.” Granger smoothed her jumper over her perfectly normal midsection. “You didn’t have to be kind to me.”

“I was merely stating the truth,” Draco responded.

“Harry doesn’t think you’re selling the photos. I don’t either.”

“I’m so pleased that you have faith in me.” The words should have been sarcastic, but Draco couldn’t get the tone quite right.

Granger looked awkwardly around the ridiculously tiny bedroom, just enough space for a bed and wardrobe with precious little room between to walk. A single Puddlemere United poster adorned his wall. Soon, she noticed the books and notes covering Draco’s bed. She walked forward, like a moth to a flame.

“What’s all this?” she asked. Glancing over the papers, her eyes lit up. “You’re trying to figure out how someone is getting the photos out!”

Seeing no way to conceal his actions, Draco chose instead to disguise his motivations. He couldn’t stand Granger knowing that he wanted to protect Potter. “Yes, well, if everyone is going to accuse me, I might as well know how it’s being done.”

Granger’s smile grew as she flipped through Draco’s notes, without asking of course. “Hold on. I’m going to get my notes, and we can pool our information.” Granger hurried from the room, nearly vibrating with swotty excitement.

“Bollocks,” Draco mumbled.

*****

From then on, Granger insisted that they work together on their research. At first, Draco found this thoroughly irritating, as she talked through every find.

“Oh goodness, Malfoy, listen to this: _Minest filthiest thoughts flyest forth from a source moste clean. Minest ablutions delayed by musings on thoust sensuous smouldering bosoms._ Please explain to me why this drivel is supposed to be romantic.” 

Granger had been reading the memoirs of Gethin ap Hywel, who had apparently fancied himself quite the lady killer, and had lived in what was now the eighth year dorms in the 16th century. Despite restrictions on student communication with members of the opposite sex, ap Hywel had managed epistolary affairs with a number of married women during his time at Hogwarts.

“I will never understand the romantic preferences of vapid women, Granger.” Draco drawled.

Granger snorted in amusement and much to Draco’s surprise, he smiled in response.

Weasley seemed to regard his girlfriend’s new study partner warily, until one day, Granger dragged him over with her. “I’m sorry I called you an arsehole,” he said, eyes on the table. “This is the first time Harry doesn’t think you’re up to something, so I’d best believe it, right?” Weasley ended with an awkward chuckle.

“Oh, I definitely am an arsehole,” Draco answered, “just not for rummaging around in your pants drawer.”

Weasley laughed openly then, clapping Draco on the back as if they were friends. Draco saw Potter watching them from across the room. He smirked and relished in the broad grin Potter returned.

Over the next few weeks, Draco found himself beside the Golden Trio more and more often. Sometimes researching ways to smuggle information, but also just… socializing. (Something fifteen-year-old Draco would have found absolutely impossible.) He was utterly shocked to find himself enjoying working through Arithmancy proofs with Granger. Weasley was a surprisingly cunning chess opponent, and, despite his strange allegiance to Chudley, had insightful things to say about Quidditch. 

Draco found himself not infrequently staying up late in the common room with Potter. In the quiet, by the firelight, Draco and Potter would talk. Small tidbits of question and answer, followed by cathartic silence. 

Draco asked Potter why he trusted him. “Because I think we’re more alike than not. We were both terrified. Dragged into a war as children. Pushed around by forces bigger than us. What’s important is what you do now.” Potter smiled at Draco and reached out to squeeze his hand, shy and tentative. Merlin, it made Draco’s chest ache.

Smith and several other eighth years continued to gossip that Draco was the nefarious informer, insisting that Draco was frequently seen sneaking around the eighth year dorms. Younger students whispered when he passed. Professors seemed to give him even more nervous looks than normal. Powell went so far as to put up a few photos of Granger and Potter on the unity board where she’d quite obviously cut Draco out . 

By late November, Draco was comfortable enough to join Weasley in taking the piss out of Potter. _W!_ had published an article about Potter’s South American quidditch ambitions, citing his subscriptions to Brazilian and Mexican periodicals. (Only those heathens in the United States played the ridiculous quodpot.) Weasley teased Potter about escaping ‘dreary old England.’ Draco, however, suspected that Potter’s interest in these had more to do with the fact that the magazines frequently included photo spreads of the players in substantially less than their full kit. When Draco pointed out that Potter couldn’t read Spanish or Portuguese, Potter blushed in a way that made Draco feel entirely too warm. If he hadn’t been distracted by that, he might have noticed the smug look Granger gave Weasley.

Late that evening, Draco sat beside Potter on a sofa in the otherwise empty common room. Potter swore his way through a Potions essay while Draco alternated between advising and mocking him. Every once in a while, their legs would brush, sending tingles all through Draco. It seemed, at times, as if Potter was flirting with him, but Draco was careful not to be forward. This arrangement with the vaunted heroes was too delicate to risk misreading signals, not that Draco had much experience reading those, having spent far too much of his adolescence afraid for his actual life rather than cultivating a social one.

Suddenly, Potter pushed his text off his lap and threw up his hands. “What is the fucking difference between minced and diced?”

“That was perhaps a bit overly dramatic.”

Potter crossed his arms and glared. 

Draco smiled teasingly. “Again, not a productive response.” 

It was then that he noticed Potter’s textbook theatrics had knocked his tea over on Draco’s own meticulously written essay. “Bollocks!” 

Draco stood, hurriedly grabbing pieces of parchment out of the puddle. Potter went about siphoning the spilled tea with his wand. Somehow, they both managed to trip over the coffee table. Draco found himself quite suddenly with his arms around Potter's shoulders as they fumbled. When they regained their footing, Potter didn’t move away, instead he rested his hands on Draco’s waist. 

“Er, hello,” Potter whispered.

“Oh?” Potter’s hands made Draco uncharacteristically inarticulate.

Potter tilted his head up slightly, Gryffindor boldness shining in his eyes. His warm breath tingled against Draco’s lips. The boldness seemed to be contagious as Draco leaned forward ever so slightly, and Potter moved in the last bit to meet him. Their lips touched tentatively at first, warm and soft and simple. Then, Draco felt Potter pull Draco's bottom lip between his own, sending a jolt all through his body. Draco didn’t have much experience with kissing, just a few fumbles before his life had been overrun by fear, but this, oh this, he could get used to. He moaned low as Potter pulled their bodies together, thoroughly enjoying the friction as he felt Potter rub stiffness against the growing bulge in Draco’s trousers.

At that realization, some last bit of caution still functioning in his brain made Draco pull back, afraid to escalate things too quickly. He looked down at Potter’s dazed expression, worried he'd be rejected, but then Potter smiled and Draco’s whole body buzzed. 

"That, um, definitely helped me figure some things out."

"Oh," Draco said, again stunningly verbose.

"Yea." And there was that smile again. Draco felt as if his knees might give out.

Potter leaned in for one more quick kiss before walking away.

Draco slumped against the wall and waited for his heart to cease trying to escape his chest.

After that, Draco knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep without a very cold shower. So despite the late hour, he gathered his toiletries and went to the communal loo. He was relieved to find it empty, allowing him to waffle between misery and joy in peace. 

He washed, trying not to think about the softness of Potter’s lips or the hardness he’d felt against his leg or whether and when he might be able to do it again. He banged his head into the shower divider, hoping to literally knock some sense into himself. The shower divider banged back, coming loose and nearly falling onto him.

"Fucking communal loo! All these experts fixing up the castle and no one can keep a shower stall secure!” 

Draco shoved the loose shower divider in frustration. It fell, revealing the original tile wall of the Roman bath. One large tile, just over where the edge of the old tub would have been, was inscribed with a double heart, one shadowed behind the other.

The symbol on Gethin ap Hywel’s memoirs. The man who had secretly sent dirty letters while living here.

Draco accioed his wand from his pile of clothes and tapped it to the tile. Sparks. He tried ap Hywel’s most ridiculous phrases. ‘Vulgar veneration.’ ‘Lubricious letters.’ Finally, on ‘Magnificent Membrum Virile,’ the tile slid to the side, revealing a small alcove. Draco shook his head at the hubris. 

He peered inside the alcove, noticing the same symbol on bottom. He ran his fingers around the edge, then lifted the bottom tile like the lid of a box. Underneath was a sheet of clear crystal. He placed his palm on it, jerking back suddenly when a bright light flashed through the crystal. 

He tried to think through the significance of this alcove but, between the late hour, the earlier adrenaline rush, and the fact that he was standing naked in a cold spray, his brain wouldn’t function. The only thing he could think of was to carefully close it up and set an alert charm so he’d know the next time it was opened.

*****

The next morning, Draco, Potter, Granger, and Weasley huddled around a table in the back of the common room. Draco explained what he’d found the night before, omitting why he’d decided to take a shower after midnight. After he finished, Granger furiously rifled through all her notes on Gethin ap Hywel while Weasley stared strangely at one of the _W!_ magazines. Draco’s efforts to look over his own notes were severely hampered by the fact that Potter was looking over his shoulder. Potter’s warm breath on his neck was so reminiscent of the night before that he really wasn’t sure the words in front of him were even in English.

“These photographs are a bit blurry, fuzzy, or something. Bright flash. Like a camera.” Weasley mumbled and stroked his stubble. “Hey, Gin!”

Weasley’s sudden bellow broke Draco out of his focus on Potter’s breath.

“What?” she yelled back from a sofa, where she reclined with her legs in Longbottom’s lap.

“What was that muggle machine Dad had that sent copies of things along the teli-fun?”

“A Zax?”

Granger’s face emerged from her pile of parchment. “A fax machine?”

“Yea, that’s it,” Weasely nodded. “These photographs look like copies of copies. What if that’s how the arsehole is getting it out around the security charms? They aren’t physically sending anything out. Just a duplicating charm.”

Granger thought for a moment, before smiling broadly. “Ron, you’re a genius.”

The way Weasley’s chest puffed with pride made Draco slightly nauseous, but he had to admit, it was a damn good idea.

*****

It was just gone midnight several days later when Draco, grinning like an idiot, made his way out of Potter’s room. He’d been figuring out some more things with Potter, like just how they both felt about putting their hand in another bloke’s pants. (Turned out they both thoroughly enjoyed it.) He was so caught up in happy thoughts, that it took him a moment to understand why his wand had started glowing. 

The alert. He pushed at the door to the loo only to find it locked. _”Alohomora,”_ he intoned and pushed at the door again.

Cerys Powell stood in front of the open alcove, placing a piece of parchment on the crystal. Powell startled and turned, snorting dismissively when she saw Draco. Shocked to discover the culprit was a professor, Draco froze.

“Do you make a habit of bursting in on women in the loo?”

“Do you make a habit of betraying your students’ trust?” Draco asked, regaining his snark.

“Oh, just a little supplemental income. Really, a professor’s salary is laughably small.”

Draco thought of Potter’s fear that his private thoughts would be published. Weasley and Granger’s embarrassment. The threats against Longbottom and Ginevra. “It stops now,” Draco hissed.

“Oh, please. You’re too scared to turn me in. Who would believe you? A Death Eater accusing a professor?” She laughed cruelly.

And that was a bridge too far. The last years had been a succession of horrible events Draco had been too cowardly to stop. But fuck if Draco was going to be afraid of this conniving sell-out. Draco stepped closer to Powell, pulling his wand from his pocket. “ _Incarcerous!_ ” A brilliant silver chain wrapped her wrists together.

“We’ll see.” 

*****

Professors McGonagall and Flitwick entered the eighth year common room and pushed past the gapping, pajama clad students on their way to the loo. Draco, Potter, Granger, and Weasley entered the room behind them.

“What happened?” Thomas asked.

“Malfoy was trying to kidnap Powell!” Smith shouted.

The students had all been woken by Powell’s cries while Draco dragged her out of the loo. Draco had barely gotten Powell into the common room when McGonagall, alerted to the ruckus by the portraits, had burst in and scurried them, as well as the trio, off to her office. 

“Yes, yes, she woke us all up. We saw that part. But what happened in McGonagall’s office?” Abbott demanded.

“I calmly informed our headmistress that Powell was the one selling gossip,” Draco drawled, arms crossed over his chest. 

“What? A professor? I don’t believe it.” Smith said, glaring at Draco.

Weasley stepped forward. “S’true. It took a while to sort it all out, but she confessed to the whole thing.”

“It seems that Powell is the several times great niece of Gethin Ap Hywel…” Granger explained.

“The famous seducer?” Brown clutched her folded hands to her chest.

“Um, yes.” Granger rolled her eyes and continued, “She recognized his carving when she was working on renovating the loo and worked out how to use his duplicating charm to send information to _W!_. She had quite the scheme to make a profit off of us all.”

“And Draco figured it out.” Potter practically beamed as he knocked his shoulder against Draco’s. He couldn’t help blushing in response.

“Oh please tell me she said ‘If it hadn’t been for you meddling kids!’” Thomas laughed.

Most of the eighth years looked at him oddly, but Finch-Fletchley waved a hand, “It’s from a muggle thing.” 

*****

The eighth years had not been assigned a new head of house, which seemed like the perfect reason to throw a party before the Christmas hols. (With libations brought in by house elves, whose actions were exempt from monitoring and were apparently quite friendly with a number of the Gryffindors.)

Since the incident with Powell, the eighth years seemed to be making an effort to be friendly with Draco. Thomas and Finnigan decided he needed to follow muggle football, which Draco admitted wasn’t completely without merit, despite being confined to the ground. Longbottom animatedly discussed the intersection of Herbology and Potions with him. Smith had actually apologized for his accusations, although Draco doubted his sincerity as he’d chosen to do it loudly during lunch. Draco still didn’t feel entirely comfortable around the eighth years, as if this peace might suddenly disappear, but it was refreshing to not be ostracized. 

Draco had spent most of the party in an armchair off to the side with a glass of neat firewhiskey in his hand. It was not a particularly good firewhiskey, but Malfoys did not mix their drinks. Harry (who insisted on first names if they were going to continue figuring things out together) seemed to be making no effort to maintain discreet distance and edged a little closer to him with every disgustingly sweet concoction he ingested. Around his fourth, Harry had slid down the arm of the chair to squish beside Draco. Between the sensation of Potter’s body beside him and the firewhiskey, Draco was feeling quite flushed.

The party had devolved into a series of toasts led by increasing tipsy Gryffindors standing on tables. Longbottom jumped up onto the toasting table, managing to gain his footing only with the help of two Weasleys. He turned to Draco and held up his glass. “To Malfoy, who saved us from salacious gossip!” 

The room raised their glasses and echoed, “To Malfoy!” The amount of genuine smiles directed at Draco definitely did not make him feel tight in the chest.

When attention had left them, Draco whispered to Harry, “Are you sure you want people to see you this close to me?” Even if they didn’t have to fear it being published, Draco didn’t want to out Potter before he was ready.

“I’m ok with it.” Potter smiled that stupid beaming smile as he ran his hand up Draco’s arm. “In fact, I think you should be sure to pick up the next Quibbler.” He leaned in and kissed Draco, slow and deep and sure.

Draco jerked back at the sudden sound of a hoot. His stomach lurched as the whole room stared at them. But then Granger smiled and Weasley laughed. Ginevra collected galleons from Finnigan and Thomas. And the party’s focus moved on as if former nemeses kissing was of no consequence at all.

*****  
_**Quibbler Special Edition: Harry Potter Comes Out!**  
Potter’s Exclusive Interview with Luna Lovegood  
Plus: Hermione Granger on Equal Rights Legislation  
And: Dr. Mae Thomas on Being an Ally _

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of H/D Cluefest and the creator is currently undercover. You can follow the fest at our [Tumblr](https://hd-cluefest.tumblr.com/). Creators will be unmasked on the 15th April.


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